Cathexis
by immutable
Summary: Wesley and Illyria attempt to come to terms with what is inevitably the future. Post "Timebomb."


Cathexis  
  
by immutable  
  
Disclaimer: Angel is owned by those other than me.   
  
Notes: Story takes place post "Timebomb." As I'm new to the world of Angel fanfiction, I apologize if this has been done before.  
  
---  
  
The door closed almost soundlessly behind Angel, and Wesley released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He turned to find Illyria staring at him, an amused look on her face, a look he'd come to know as her version of a smirk. It was an odd look to see so quickly after her sudden . . . lowering; he thought that perhaps she'd resolved not to show any more weakness in front of the "vermin." Or she'd had an epiphany, though he wasn't sure what she would have realized. "You were speaking about me," she said, not using the intercom but still audible. It was a remnant of her former power, perhaps. He wondered what else remained. "What did you say?" she asked.  
  
"Nothing important," Wesley demurred, knowing that the respectful denial would bother her more than the knowledge of what Angel had said could have.  
  
"You still mourn the shell," Illyria said, watching him, but not closely enough to betray any curiosity - that would have been beneath her, after all.  
  
Wesley paused. "Hm?" he said, knowing full well what she meant and yet not knowing how to answer her, how to explain in terms that an immortal, no, a god, could understand. Much less one that had been rather out of the loop for the past few thousand years.  
  
"Why do you still mourn it?" she asked. "Your existence is short, and the shell has been dead for a great deal of your time." His time. Not hers - not its. What were a few weeks to Illyria, to Illyria in its original form?  
  
"There are things that withstand time," Wesley said slowly. "I imagine that you, being one of them, would know that."   
  
"The shell was mortal. Mortals cannot understand time, cannot understand what it means to withstand it." She regarded him with cold blue eyes, and he fancied that if he looked hard enough, he could see Fred underneath, as if Illyria were nothing more than a shadow. But that itself was illusion, and he looked away from the god.  
  
"We can try," he said. "Though of course our attempts fail before your great wisdom." The words were spoken gently, but the sarcasm was obvious.  
  
Illyria narrowed her eyes. "I grow tired of all of this, all of you. Your fears hang on you like vapor and your desires cling to your footsteps. It fills the air and suffocates and I cannot breathe." He wondered if she was building up to something, if she expected something of him, a reaction to her declaration.  
  
"Is it better," he asked mildly, "since you're no longer the center of so much energy?"  
  
"You destroyed me so that I must live here, in this shell. You made me weak. I should destroy you for this," she announced. From a distance, if he hadn't known what she was, he might have found her arrogance comical.  
  
"Why don't you?" he asked instead, resting a hand on the glass that separated them. Even now, she could kill him.  
  
"You would gladly die?" She regarded him curiously. "Do you wish to join the shell?" Wesley was silent, not for the first time unsure of what to say. How could he explain to Illyria what even he didn't know, what he wondered . . .  
  
"I was taught perseverance," he answered. "I learned that surrender is not an option." It wasn't an answer, not really, but maybe it was close enough.  
  
"To do otherwise is weakness," Illyria commented, and he wondered if she viewed this as surrender. She would have preferred to die - for what it was worth - at the center of such an explosion. "I will not destroy you because you'll teach me to survive in this world, and perhaps you will help me regain my former power. Because I fascinate you, you'll try."  
  
He chose not to comment on the last part. "Hope," Wesley said. She looked at him in askance. "You are hopeful."  
  
"I have no need for hope," she said coldly, tossing her head back in a gesture that had once been Fred's.  
  
"No," Wesley agreed. "But do you find it makes it easier to live?"  
  
He didn't stay to hear an answer, and if Illyria understood, she showed no sign.  
  
---  
  
Feedback would be wonderful. 


End file.
